because of you. You made me. They sent me to Colorado, a
lonely kid, with a pretty fair chance of dying, and I would
have, if it hadn't been for you. There! How's that for a
burst of speech, young woman! And wait a minute. Remember,
too, my name was Clarence. I had that to live down."

Fanny was staring at him eyes round, lips parted. "But
why?" she said, faintly. "Why?"

Heyl smiled that singularly winning smile of his. "Since
you force me to it, I think I'm in love with that little,
warm-hearted spitfire in the red cap. That's why."

Fanny sat forward now. She had been leaning back in her
chair, her hands grasping its arms, her face a lovely,
mobile thing, across which laughter, and pity, and sympathy
and surprise rippled and played. It hardened now, and set.
She looked down at her hands, and clasped them in her lap,
then up at him. "In that case, you can forsake the
strenuous life with a free conscience. You need never climb
another mountain, or wrestle with another--er--hippopotamus.
That little girl in the red cap is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. She died a year ago. If the one who has taken her
place were to pass you on the street today, and see you
beset by forty thieves, she'd not even stop. Not she.
She'd say, `Let him fight it out alone. It's none of your
business. You've got your own fights to handle.'"